


Rivers of sand, or fire, or gold, or again just a lot of hot sand stretching beyond the horizon.

by Oxygen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, first few weeks of them meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 10:18:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15362346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxygen/pseuds/Oxygen
Summary: It’s strange, this arrangement. Not bad, but definitely strange. In the painfully long, or arguably short, or just plain memorable 2 weeks that they’ve known each other, Roadhog has decided that he doesn’t know how to feel.





	Rivers of sand, or fire, or gold, or again just a lot of hot sand stretching beyond the horizon.

“No guzzoline for 50 kilometres,” Roadhog muses. The sand is red, yellow, gold, and infinite.

“No koalas either,” Junkrat shoots back. He remembered the sign from the boiler room they snaked through when leaving Junkertown.

They’re in Junkrat’s roaming trailer for the meantime, closer to The Arrays and a vast amount of nothing than to the town they called home. It’s nice enough, the trailer, with a rudimentary AC and less flies and miscellaneous garbage than Roadhog would have expected. They’ll hunker down here until the heat from the barfight and other ensuing encounters simmer down. Maybe plot some stuff.

It’s strange, this arrangement. Not bad, but definitely strange. In the painfully long, or arguably short, or just plain memorable 2 weeks that they’ve known each other, Roadhog has decided that he doesn’t know how to feel.

Junkrat is loud and impulsive. He’s closed his hand on a wrought iron drawer at least twice, or maybe three times now that he thinks of it, and his voice seems to crack every other sentence. He pokes fun at Roadhog for his sparkling side of the conversation, which Roadhog doesn’t know if he should take as a fun jab at his more reserved modalities, or as a legitimate and quietly irate criticism.

Roadhog’s altruistic nature struggles to overcome the side of him that wears down easily when he’s got the human version of a nagging fly buzzing at his ears-- Which, to be honest, is not really a side to him anymore, and just how the general population would react to Junkrat. But Junkrat’s learning when to reel in, and Roadhog’s being drawn out.

Junkrat stops clacking his prosthetics on the nearest table and instead taps his foot, which he knows Roadhog can stand a little more and satisfies him as much. Goes out of his way to ask Roadhog about a song coming out of his old, tinny music player. _S’Iron Maiden_ , the big man tells him. _The guy meets Death, just listen_.

They laze outside of the trailer, drinking lukewarm beer and watching the sands stir from underneath an extendable umbrella attached to the trailer. Roadhog frowns as he looks down at the unattractive drink. Maybe Junkrat can clobber together a nice fridge for them, out of scrap and thin air like he usually does. For now, Roadhog muses.

Junkrat takes some offhand idea he had for his bike and makes it a reality in an hour, with random supplies from his bottomless dufflebag. He likes it. A little spraypaint here, some screws to more securely mount something there, and his bike’s suddenly become a very nice collaborative work. He looks over to the bike with a strange twinge of pride, or something else, in his heart.

Just like that, they sound ideas easily off of eachother, like brainstorming choreography over a few drinks, only this dance number is a little more murderous and involves some people having less opioids and assorted car parts than they had the day before.

It’s strange. Not bad, maybe bad, maybe not, he doesn’t know yet. It’s definitely strange, but maybe it can be good. They’re both impulsive bastards in their own ways, Roadhog picking it all up to live with this weird stranger who has an indeterminate amount of wealth and grand visions for the future. It could be a match made in heaven, or a very shitty and convoluted version of a blind date that only the devil and maybe a few politicians would craft.

But only time will tell.

  
  



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